Page 97 of Marrying the Savage

“Where?”

“First to Dmitri’s estate. Then two vehicles to the private clinic.”

“Dmitri?”

“Alive. Angry. Drugged.”

“Unfortunate combination.”

“For his nurses, yes.”

I look out the window. “And Sergei?”

“Still quiet.”

“Too quiet.”

“Yes.”

Silence from Sergei after yesterday means one of three things. He is wounded deeply enough to retreat. He is choosing politics over blood until the old families settle. Or he is preparing something.

I have never known Sergei Antonov to retreat.

The warehouse sits near the old river docks, one of several properties whose official records pass through three companies, two false names, and a dead man in Cyprus. From the outside, it looks abandoned enough to satisfy any casual eye. Broken upper windows. Rusted loading doors. A fence that appears neglected unless someone studies the cameras too closely.

Inside, it’s very much alive.

Men move crates beneath harsh lights. Forklifts hum. The air smells of oil, cold metal, river damp, and cigarette smoke despite the fact that I have told them twice not to smoke near inventory. Someone will be punished for that later.

Tonight’s shipment matters.

Not because of the weapons themselves, though those are valuable enough, but because of the route. The Antonov-Sokolov alliance was meant to secure passage along this line within the month. Yesterday ended that possibility.

Now everyone will test the seams.

I step from the car and button my coat.

Nikolai meets us near the side entrance. “Boss.”

“What is late?”

“Two trucks.”

“Reason?”

“Driver says traffic police held them near the ring road.”

“At three in the morning?”

Nikolai’s mouth tightens. “Exactly.”

Mikhail looks at me. I feel the night change.

“Inside,” I say loudly, leaving no place for disobedience. “Now.”

We enter through the side door.

The first shot comes before it closes behind us. It hits the wall near Nikolai’s head, spraying brick dust across his shoulder.